


When You Come Back Down

by leobrat



Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-09
Updated: 2011-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-16 19:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leobrat/pseuds/leobrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, you and me are sort of like black swans...</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Come Back Down

“He’s a dick, you know,” Abigail says, spooning some more chocolate sauce over her sundae.

“I know,” Taylor responds glumly. She combs her fingers through her hair. It feels so strange when it’s straight -- slippery almost.

“What?” Abigail shrugs and squirts the can of whipped cream directly into her mouth. “I’m supposed to say it three times a day. That’s your rule, chica, not mine.”

Taylor groans and lays her head on the kitchen table. “Maybe we should move it up to five.”

“Hi, girls. How were the CMT Awards?” Her mom asks that question in the same tone she would always use when she asked them _How was the homecoming dance? How was the football game? How was the sleepover?_ Taylor grins as she comes into the room with a basket full of fresh laundry and settles it on the chair between her daughter and herself.

“They were okay, Mom,” Taylor tries for a smile as she reaches for a pile of towels and starts folding them in thirds.

“Just okay?” Her mom exchanges a look with Abigail who only raises her eyebrows and then looks back at her ice cream. “Hmmm...Well, I know I’m not supposed to do this, but I went on TMZ about an hour after you left, and I saw that a certain...over-rated guitar player was performing with Keith?” Andrea is smiling but she snaps the towel extra-loud and Taylor knows she has a few more choice words but is kindly biting her tongue. She knows what a ringer Taylor’s been through better than anyone.

“He’s not over-rated,” Taylor says very quietly, and her mom sits down next to her and takes her hand. Abigail pushes the ice cream towards her and even spoons up a nice big scoop with plenty of whipped cream and chocolate, but Taylor shakes her head. “Mom, it was so _awkward_.”

“We were sitting _six seats_ away from him,” Abigail adds.

Andrea shakes her head and purses her lips. “Who would do that?”

“Um the seating chart people who never knew we were together...or...whatever...in the first place!” Taylor lays her head down on the table again and she can feel her mom softly running her hand over her hair. She soothes her under her breath _shh, it’s okay honey_ , just like she did when she was a little girl. Taylor wishes that’s all it would take to make this pain, this hurt go away. She lifts her head. “How am I supposed to do this again in a week?”

“I’ll be there with you again,” Abigail smiles from across the table. “Holding your hand. Like I always do.”

Taylor has to smile. They don’t call it ‘best’ friend for nothing.

“You’re the best, Ab, but...” She sighs. She hates being this dramatic. “I felt like I was standing alone in a crowded room.”

 _Standing alone...in a crowded room...not speaking_

Taylor jumps out of her chair on reflex and her mom and Abigail both flinch for a second. “Uh...sorry...I’ve got to run upstairs for a while...” She starts to mumble, distracted by lyrics jumbling up in her head... _The story of us...looks a lot like a tragedy now..._ With a hard, driving punk-pop beat...

She’s already out of the room and up the stairs, with Abigail telling her mom all about the pretty dresses at the awards. They’re totally used to this.

* * *

It’s very late in the morning by the time Taylor wakes up. She had eventually crawled into bed next to Abigail some time around four am, and she is already gone. There’s a pink post it on Taylor’s side of the bed with her best friend’s loopy scrawl, reading _Call you later sleepyhead! Love, me!_

Her mom is in the kitchen with the ironing board when she comes downstairs. It seems she is always in the midst of some state of laundry. “Morning honey. Did you finish the song?” she’s all smiles and Taylor returns the grin. She feels like there’s a weight off her soul.

“Yup, I did,” Taylor pours herself some orange juice and hops up on to the counter. Her mom gives her a Look -- she knows she’s not supposed to do that -- but doesn’t say a word about it.

“What’s it called? The song?”

“The Story Of Us,” Taylor sighs. “And you’ll be happy to know that the last line is _The End._ ”

Andrea switches off the iron and comes around to the counter, standing in front of her daughter. “Honey, look at me.” Taylor puts the glass down and gives her mom her full attention. “I want you to know...I didn’t _not_ like him _just because_ , or even just because of his age...though I didn’t love that, of course. He scared me. It was too...manic with him, too intense, and you’re-”

“I know, I’m too young for a relationship like that,” Taylor finishes. They’d had this conversation many times over the winter, sometimes with raised voices.

“You love too hard. You crash too hard. And he didn’t deserve you, honey,” Andrea frames Taylor’s face in her hands. “You see that now, right?”

Taylor starts to shrug but she knows that isn’t the answer her mom is looking for. She nods instead. “You want to hear the song?”

Andrea smiles. “Of course.”

Taylor runs upstairs for her guitar and after she plays it both she and her mom agree that it’s the ideal last song for her album. At long last- _Speak Now_ is finished.

“Well, honey...I think it’s perfect,” her mom says. She always says that. She cocks her head. “Do you think...you’ll be okay next week now?”

Taylor sits back, running her hand over her guitar thoughtfully. She realizes this is the same guitar she played with him. Not on stage...but other times, when they were alone. Doing an impromptu duet to _Tiny Dancer_ one cold, rainy night in L.A. She wonders if she’ll ever forget little things like that. “You know...I think I will be okay. Not great. But I’ll be okay.”

And she will be.

Andrea smiles. “Good.” Taylor nods, and her mom kisses her on both cheeks. “Do you want to go shopping for a dress today? A sparkly purple one?”

Taylor laughs.

* * *

Taylor has been okay. She went out and bought a pretty new dress with her mom (purple but un-sparkly), put a pretty flower in her hair and took pictures with Abigail before they left the hotel (just like they did at homecoming, just like they always do). She did the red carpet with a smile and had her grateful ( _truly_ grateful) acceptance speech ready to go, but now...

 _She’s right back to where she was._

 _  
_Losing my mind when I saw you here..._   
_

But that song has been written and the story is supposed to be over.

But how can that be when he’s up on stage, devilishly charming the room right out of its socks and singing her praises?

“...So I sat down and we started playing guitars together one day...And son of a bitch, she writes her own songs.” The audience laughs, and it’s more than polite- he’s always been a king at working the crowd. Taylor’s heart stops for a moment when she feels like he’s looking _right at her_ (but there’s no way, the lights are too bright and she’s just one of many faces to him right now), and Abigail reaches out and squeezes her hand, just like she promised she would.

“He’s a dick, he’s a dick,” Abigail whispers under her breath.

But Taylor’s not really listening to her because her heart is nearly pounding out of her chest. Oh, how can he still do this to her? It’s just not fair.

He just got back from Europe two weeks ago, and he’s been going non-stop since mid-April (not that she’s been keeping track or anything). His voice is thick and tired. He hasn’t been sleeping lately, she can tell. She’s not supposed to worry about these things any more though.

He pauses at one point because the room is applauding so loud that he couldn’t continue if he wanted to. Even if the show was running long (which it was), nobody hurries John Mayer along when he has a piece to say.

“I said to her one time, you know, you and me are sort of like black swans. You know, we’re so rare, there’s not really any reasoning for it.” He continues on, but Taylor can’t hear the rest of it.

He said that to her one time...in bed. After they’d made love. After the _first time_ they’d made love. If she hadn’t been headlong in love with him before that (and if she’s honest with herself, she’s been headlong in love with him since she was thirteen years old and gushing to herself over _Comfortable_ and dreaming of the day a boy would look at her like that), she was lost right in that second.

And she’s right back to where she was.

He continues on, his speech full of humorous stories and dignified admiration, and people seem delighted. The woman next to her smiles. “Quite an intro!” Taylor laughs politely but it sounds hollow, tinny in her head. Abigail squeezes her hand harder.

“...That is why I am _so_ honored to present to Miss Taylor Swift the Hal David Starlight award,” and the crowd lets the applause go full-tilt and it’s time for Taylor to go up onstage and have the moment she’s been dreaming of all her life.

 _Crap._

She concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other down the aisle, and if people think she’s moving slowly, she hopes they attribute it to her spindly high heels and nerves rather than dreading being on stage...in arm’s reach of him. She has her biggest _Taylor Swift!_ smile painted on her face, and all the way down she can hear people congratulating her but actual faces or voices don’t register.

By the time she gets fifteen, ten feet from the stage, she knows she can’t look at the ground any more, and looks up, into the lights, at the man at the center of it all. He’s looking back at her, holding out his arms, and that look in his eye...

He _has_ been looking right at her. He would find her anywhere.

She feels herself float into his arms (and God this feels so right), and the rest of the world seems to fall away. “I’m so proud of you, baby,” he whispers against her ear. “I missed you.” And then she feels his callused thumb brush gently against her bare back, sending a pleasant tingle straight down her spine to her toes and she can feel herself warm all over.

How had she ever left this place?

He was placing the award in her hands and smiling (his smile had always killed her, gutted her, and now is no different) and she looked down and...this was the Songwriters Hall of Fame. This is her moment. She deserved it, she’s worked her butt off for over five years...dreamed and wished on stars all her life. This is her moment.

She walks to the podium and allows the world to come back to her, and counts back from thirteen in her head. “Thank you so much...”

* * *

 _Why are we pretending this is nothing?_

Taylor managed to shut off what she was feeling, and throw herself into the moment, smiling for the press and answering all the right questions. Three years ago, she wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

But she can feel the strain from putting up this front for the past hour (she _is_ happy, she _is_ proud), as she slows her step walking through the corridor from the press room to the green room. It’s fairly empty because nobody is allowed through here except for winners and presenters- basically people who’d been on-stage. She’d gotten Abigail backstage access to meet her in the green room. She just wants to go back to the hotel and watch _Pride & Prejudice_, and maybe get some cookies sent up to the room.

She has her head down, rubbing her hand over the back of her neck when she hears heavy footsteps behind her, and then there is a larger, warm hand covering hers on her nape. “Long night?”

She fights the almost Pavlovian response to close her eyes and lean into him because his callused fingers are so familiar and she knows that from the nape of her neck he moves to the base of her spine, and then...

 _Don’t go there, Taylor._

So, she looks up and smiles, her bright, press-ready smile. “Yeah, long night. Good though,” she carefully moves away, tries to keep the shift looking casual. “Thanks for what you said, that was...really nice.”

He laughs. He knows what she’s doing and he knows she knows but he just leans one shoulder against the wall. They’re almost the same height this way, with her three-inch heels. “I missed you. Why didn’t you call me when you got into town?”

Oh God. He wasn’t going to let this go. He was actually going to do this.

Taylor smiles and looks down at her pedicured toes. She bites back a stinging reply. _Hard to see on my end_.

“Baby, look at me.” But she doesn’t until he nudges her chin up with the knuckle of his finger. “Where are you staying tonight?” Taylor’s heart starts hammering because this is how she got into this whole mess in the first place. He moves closer to her. “Taylor...Come home with me. I want to talk to you.”

“Hey! _Hey!”_ Abigail’s voice clangs like a fire alarm behind her and John steps a decent distance away.

Taylor turns to her best friend who’s hurrying over with worry creasing her face. “Everything okay over here?” She automatically puts her hand in Taylor’s and Taylor has to hand it to her- she can be one intimidating redhead when she wants to be.

“You must be Abigail,” he turns on the charm. “I’m John.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” she smirks at him and doesn’t take his offered hand. She turns her attention back to Taylor. “You want to go? Milk & Honey?”

Taylor glances back at John, and he’s looking down trying to hide his church giggles. She wishes Abigail wouldn’t repeat things she hears on _Gossip Girl_. “Ab, can I talk to you for a second?” She grabs her best friend by the elbow and ushers her a scant ten feet away, and tries to pretend that he’s not hearing every word they say. “Ab...Do you mind if...”

“You’re going to _go home_ with him?”

“Keep your voice down,” Taylor mutters. “Please, Ab. He wants to talk.”

Abigail crosses her arms. “He _never_ wants to talk.”

“Ab,” Taylor wishes there wasn’t such desperation in her voice. “I _have_ to hear what he has to say.”

Abigail is quiet for a second. She knows when Taylor means business. She sighs, resigned. “Okay. I’ll be at the hotel.”

“Thanks Ab,” Taylor gives her a quick hug, before she turns back around to face him.

She mirrors his pose, with one shoulder against the wall and watches his hand as he lifts it, trailing the tips of his fingers down the length of her arm. “You want to get out of here?”

There’s still time. She doesn’t have to do anything.

“Yes. I do.”

* * *

Of course, just ‘getting out of there’ can never be a simple thing. He guides her over to one of the private security guards, who walks her out to the car waiting outside. He’s going to cab it home, pose for a few pictures outside. This is for both of their own good, and she’s kind of grateful that he’s the one taking on the attention of the public right now (she loves her fans so much, but she just can’t handle the crowd it tonight), but still it makes her feel like she’s doing something...not wrong, but not exactly right either.

Eventually they’re both back in his penthouse, and she’d ever only been in his place in L.A., but she can still feel all the little touches that give way to the fact that this is where John lives. Sleeps, breathes, lets down his guard...as much as he can, anyway. There’s a black acoustic just laying across one arm of the couch, because that must have been where he left it right before he went to the awards, and Taylor runs a hand over it. He’s in the kitchen, and when he comes back out, he’s shed his jacket and shoes and he’s holding out a little 4 oz container of Haagen Daas Amaretto Almond Crunch...and two chopsticks. He never does dishes.

She has to smile. This is so him. This is so _them_.

They each dig in with their chopstick and don’t talk for a moment. She enjoys being close to him, enjoys the quiet- it’s easier to forget the past two months and pretend that it’s January again this way. He points to the guitar on the floor. “Do you want to play something?”

She shakes her head. “No, not now.”

“Do you want _me_ to play something?” God, _yes_ , that would be wonderful. She doesn’t think there is anything better in the world than listening to him play just for her.

“No, not now,” she looks up at him and he’s moved closer. He feeds her off his own chopstick. “John...” It’s the first time she’s said his name and he smiles at her, slow, his eyes heavy-lidded. “You said you wanted to talk.”

He pushes a curl out of her eye. Some of it is starting to come loose from the pinned up mass it was in earlier and Taylor shivers when she feels his fingertip curve around the shell of her ear. “I just wanted to be with you. Alone with you. Without all the bullshit. I missed you, baby.” Taylor lets out a shaky breath. Of course this isn’t going to be different than any other time. He only knows how to communicate in two ways- and talking isn’t one of them. He leans back again, and Taylor inexplicably feels herself wanting to pull forward, to not break contact with him but she stays put. “Did you ever finish that song? It was a really sweet little melody...”

“Which one?” She was so shy about letting him listen to her works-in-progress. He would always tease her because she’d stop playing as soon as he came in the room.

He cocks one eyebrow in thought and her toes curl because he’s just too damn sexy without trying. It’s not fair. “It was like... _doo-da doo-da-dum, doo-da doo-da-dum, People throw rocks at things that shine..._ ” He smiles. “I really liked that one.”

Taylor feels her face flush. Does he really not remember the lyrics to _Ours_? Or is he just trying to spare her the humiliation of her ridiculous naivete? “Yeah, I finished it. It turned out...nice.”

“Are you going to let me hear it some time?” He slides closer and finally pulls her into his shoulder. She’s stiff for a second but then relaxes into him. It feels so much like the place she belongs that she wants to cry. “Come here. Let me hold you. I really missed you, you know.” If he says it one more time...she might even believe him.

He slowly unpins her hair and makes her giggle when he makes a big show out of sniffing the big fake flower she had in it. Hey lays it aside and calls her Carrie Bradshaw and switches on his TiVo to the season finale of _Grey’s Anatomy_. He really is breaking out all of his big See-I-Didn’t-Forget-You guns.

“I’m probably going to cry,” Taylor finally relaxes completely, kicking off her mulled heels and tucking her legs under her on the couch.

“That’s okay, I probably will too,” he settles back as well, pulling her closer into his side and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “God, I hope Mark and Lexie get back together.”

“So do I,” she answers. They always sort of felt like a...symbol, or a metaphor for the two of them. If Mark and Lexie can make it work, so can they.

He’s running his hands over her soft curls. “I always like it so much better like this. This is you.” He’s quiet for a moment, and Taylor dies a little death when she feels him kiss the top of her head. He murmurs something that sounds like _sweet..._ but she can’t hear the rest. He always used to do that- whisper a secret so quietly she could barely make it out. Like a hidden message. “Did I tell you that you look really pretty tonight?”

Taylor’s blushing against his chest. “No...not yet.”

He laughs and takes her face in his hands. “God...I missed you so much.”

And that’s it.

When he slants his lips against hers, it’s like she’s finally breathing for the first time in two months. And when he gets up and pulls her to her feet, up to his bedroom, she lets him. He undresses her in the dark, and he makes love to her slowly and carefully. Thoroughly. They always fit so well against each other.

Afterward, when she’s curled in his arms, after he’d sung to her a bit and finally drifted off, she traces the empty windowpane tattoo on his forearm. She used to imagine something that reminded him of her filling it one day, a 13 or a heart...something. “I missed you, too,” she whispers in the dark.

* * *

Taylor wakes up happy the next morning, happier than she’s been in months- maybe happier than she’s ever been. Had they really gotten through their first big crisis? Was this something they were going to look back on and laugh about someday? She’s even happier when he makes her a cup of mint tea while he sips his coffee and pours over the New York Times.

He’s already sent an assistant out to grab her a sweatsuit and some sneakers to wear back to the hotel so she doesn’t have to do the Walk of Shame in her gown from last night. Before he sends her out to the car he hired to take her back to her hotel, he kisses her goodbye like he has a thousand times before. This feels so natural. This has to be real.

Abigail is cautiously hopeful with her as she tells her the whole story in whispers on the plane home, and her mom is even more cautious.

But Taylor’s floating on air.

* * *

Three days go by.

And then a week.

And then, even later, when she still hasn’t heard from him, she finally breaks down in Abigail’s arms, who holds her tight and very kindly does not say ‘I told you so’.

A few days later, she’s back in the studio to start recording _Speak Now_. Her eyes are red and puffy, but thankfully, nobody requires a make-up artist to record. Nathan asks her if she’s okay- they’re supposed to start with _Dear John_. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”

Taylor nods. “Yes. Let’s do this.”


End file.
